


A Conspiracy of the Universe

by owlinaminor



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Doctor Who References, Fanfiction, M/M, Nerdiness, Plane, as in Merlin is an author and he writes fic on the plane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 07:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin was not expecting to even like the prat sitting next to him on the plane and making his life miserable, much less fall in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Conspiracy of the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by The Number of People who Meet on Airplanes by David Levithan and some unfortunate personal experience.  
> Originally posted on FFnet: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9243287/1/A-Conspiracy-of-the-Universe

It's one of those problems that never occurs to you until you find yourself actually in that situation, and you realize how problematic the problem actually is. For some reason, those problems always end to be the most awkward, weird ones, the ones that always seem hilarious afterwards but mortifying at the time.

I am, in fact, already composing the story for when I complain to Gwaine about this when I get safely home to our flat in London. I know how I'll describe the man causing my problem (all golden and gleaming, like a combination of a proud lion and a Greek statue come to life), the state of my bladder (literally about to explode in approximately ten seconds and being held together by sheer force of will), and the state of my mind (somewhere between ready to rip this man's head off with my teeth and ready to climb him like a tree, because although he is the source of great irritation, he is also stunningly, unfairly attractive.) The one thing I'm not yet sure how I'll describe is how I solved the problem, because, well, I don't yet have a solution.

The problem at hand is simple, and yet at the same time is incredibly complex: I am on a plane, in the window seat of a two-seat row, and the bloke sitting in the other seat is asleep, preventing me from getting out to go to the toilet.

Simple, right? you would think. Just wake him up, yeah?

But this bloke isn't the type you can  _just wake up_. I watched how he behaved when we got on—arrogant and rude to everyone he encountered, clearly putting himself thinking himself better than everyone else. A total prat. I can only imagine what he'd do to me if I woke him up (and I don't mean that in a sexual sense, unfortunately.)

I stare at him, as though his face somehow holds the key to getting out of this situation. It doesn't, of course—it only causes me to momentarily lose my train of thought, because bloody hell is he gorgeous. Mouth opening in a yawn, long neck exposed, just about begging my mind to come up with a thousand different possible images of what he'd look like in the bedroom.

He's a lot more attractive when he isn't yelling at people.

But this isn't helping, damn it! I bang my head against the seat in front of me in exasperation, wishing I'd gone before the flight, or hadn't had that lemonade with lunch, or sat somewhere else, or … The sensible thing would be to just wait for him to wake up naturally and then ask him to move, but for one thing, when have I ever been known to be the sensible thing, and for another, I will literally go in my pants if I can't get to a toilet  _right now_.

I glance at the bloke again. There is no change in his position, except for a slight widening of his legs, as though he's subconsciously inviting me in.

Well, there's only one thing to do.

Slowly, cautiously, quietly, like a secret agent sneaking through enemy lines, I stand up and, holding the seat for balance, step in towards the guy. Sure, I'm clumsier than an overweight cat with blocks attached to its legs, but if I hold my breath and step cautiously, I can make it, right? Besides, it's literally only three steps.

The bloke makes a noise in his sleep, a mumble of something, and I find myself stopping to look at him more closely, distracted by his gorgeous jaw line and his gorgeous cheekbones and his gorgeous mouth and his gorgeous … everything, really.

Just then, my leg bumps his thigh, and one (gorgeous) eye opens. Watching the progression of expressions on his face (surprise, confusion, and then settling on rage) would be amusing if those emotions weren't directed squarely on me.

He lets out a yell—I'd love to poke fun at him and say it was a girly scream, but it was a yell, a proper, manly yell, like a yell yelled by James Bond—loud enough for half of the plane to hear. So everyone is watching while he curses me out, calling me a pervert and a creep and a clumsy idiot and a few other things not fit for young ears.

Oh, bollocks.

There's no doubt my face is the color of a ripe tomato in July, and the fact that everyone on the  _entire bloody plane_  is staring at me really isn't helping. Someone starts laughing, and I can feel the red reach my ears.

The bloke is looking at me as though I'm a piece of dung, and he's going to have to wash his hands for a good hour after I've gone.

Well, I don't need any more of an invitation to get out of there. I stumble the last steps into the aisle, somehow managing to trip and fall on my face in the process.

I pick myself up, ignoring the bump I'm sure is now blooming on my forehead, and scurry down the aisle to the toilets faster than Gwaine when he hears the words, "free food." The laughter follows me all the way into the empty (thank God) stall, along with a train of thoughts for myself:  _Merlin, you idiot, Merlin, you clumsy buffoon, Merlin, you stupid, stupid, stupid …_

This is easily the most mortifying experience of my life. And that's kind-of an accomplishment, considering  _me_.

Safely in the toilet, I release my bladder, cursing it out for putting me in this predicament. I mean, my clumsiness has gotten me into pretty awkward situations before, but being trapped in between a guy's legs … It's a good thing I'll never meet anyone on this plane ever again, because there's no way I'd be able to face any of them.

I wash my face a couple of times, trying to wash away the blush, and stay in the toilet a few minutes longer, taking deep breaths and composing myself.

Of course, all of that goes down the drain when I step out of the toilet and make my way back to my seat, accompanied by the occasional titter. A few people even throw me sympathetic glances, which is somehow worse. I get myself through it by imagining how I can just get back to my seat, turn on my iPod, and zone out for the rest of the flight.

But the universe is still against me, because when I reach my seat again, my irritating row-mate is once again asleep. The  _prick_.

Laughter escapes from people in the seats around me, so my face must be positively hilarious.

Well. I will not stand for this. I tried to be nice to this guy once, and look how that went. I am not trying to be nice again. Any of my friends could tell you that, although I'm normally pretty shy and reserved around people I don't know, when I get pissed off, I am worse than a raging dalek. And everyone on this plane already thinks I'm the funniest thing since Monty Python, so I really don't have anything to lose in the embarrassment department.

"Wake up, you stinking … stinking … stinking …"

And this is the part when, in any decent book or movie or TV sitcom, I would come up with some sort of incredibly clever insult and the audience would cheer and everyone would suddenly be on my side. I repeat the "stinking" another time or three, waiting for the perfect insult to drop into my head like a gift from the gods.

But this isn't a book or movie or TV sitcom, so all I can come up with is, "stinking clotople!" Clotpole? What the hell is a clotpole?

And to make matters worse, my mouth decides to add, "and a dollophead, too!"

I glare at the evil bloke, pretending that the entire bloody mess is his fault (which … well, if he hadn't fallen asleep when I needed to go to the toilet, this wouldn't be happening)—and then, suddenly, I realize that he isn't actually sleeping any more.

He's laughing.  _Laughing_! At  _me_! The arrogant  _prat_!

He has a nice laugh … A surprised sort of laugh, as though he doesn't laugh very often … Oh, the poor bloke, why doesn't he laugh very often … No, Merlin! Don't give into the impulses of feeling sorry for gorgeous—no, not gorgeous,  _horrid_ —idiot. Be a man.

It's hard to feel courageous and manly when he goes and says, "I was going to pretend to stay asleep for a while longer to piss you off, but holy shit, your face—" and collapses into laughter again.

He  _pretended_  to be  _asleep_  to  _piss_  me  _off_. My hatred for this guy could set fire to a thousand black holes.

"You … you …" I point at him, hoping to somehow convey the sheer force of my anger.

And—just to spite me, I swear—he actually stands up and moves out of the aisle to let me in. With a gentlemanly, "after you" bow, no less.

This … this … There are no words.

Well, as a respectable writer and a polite person in general (most of the time), I have only one option of revenge.

I move into the aisle and sit down in my seat—glaring at my tormentor as though he just ate my firstborn son, of course (ooh, just ate my firstborn son, that's a good one)—and then proceed to get out my notebook and write this idiot into my current project as the new antagonist. Who will die. A horrible death. I'm not quite sure how he'll die yet, but I know it'll be painful and disgusting, like something out of the first five minutes of a Supernatural episode.

 _When he looked up from examining the crime scene, Colin caught a glimpse of something golden gleaming through the trees—golden hair, perhaps? He looked closer, and saw the shadow of a man watching him,_  I write, planning to go on to describe how creepy and sketchy this guy is.

"What're you writing?" asks an obnoxious voice from over my shoulder.

 _Shit_. I forgot that the bloke might be nosy as well as arrogant and rude.

"Is that a diary?" he goes on. I'm not sure if he's making fun of me or genuinely curious, and I honestly don't know which is worse. "Are you complaining in your diary about how mean I was to you? God, you're such a  _girl_."

I hide the notebook under my arm, embarrassed even though I haven't really written anything incriminating.

"I'll have you know what I'm writing has nothing to do with you," I say coldly, "so you can just go back to dreaming about undressing young girls, or whatever it is perverts like you occupy your brains with when you don't have any innocent unfortunates to torment."

He grins, not at all insulted (damn it.) "Oh, but I  _do_  have an 'unfortunate' to torment, although I would hardly call you innocent—you  _did_  practically sexually molest me earlier."

Don't blush don't blush don't blush don't …

Fuck it all, I'm blushing. So much for willpower.

"I-I-You were asleep!" I stammer. Usually, I'm more smooth than this—not by much, true, but I thought I was getting better at avoiding making an arse out of myself.

Well, it's all his fault anyway—him with his gorgeous eyes and his shining golden hair and his stupidly brilliant smile and his absolutely lick-able mouth. Not that I particularly want to lick it, or anything—I have standards—but still, it's  _there_. Being  _lick-able_. Calling out to me,  _Merlin, come lick me, I'm so lonely_ ,  _and I need the touch of your lips to help me feel whole._

… Or something like that.

"Which makes you even more of a sexual predator," the prat exclaims, triumphant in his torture of me. "Preying on innocent people who can't even defend themselves. For shame."

Just ignore him, and he'll go away. It worked with the bullies in grade school, so it can work with this jerk. I open back up my notebook, and scrawl a few more notes about the crime scene Colin, the protagonist, is investigating: a well-off old woman has been murdered, and the prize piece of her precious art collection stolen, and yet there is no way the murderer could have gotten into the room …

"Hey, what're you writing?" asks an obnoxious voice from the next seat over.

It worked for the bullies in grade school, so of course it doesn't work with this prat.

"None of your business," I tell him, hoping (but not really believing) that it'll deter him.

Which means that it does exactly the opposite—he yanks the notebook from my hands, holds it out of my reach, and starts flipping through the pages excitedly, like a little kid with a new toy.

I sigh, and explain what the notebook holds, so that he doesn't make the wrong assumptions. "It's just rough drafts, mostly of my new book."

The prat takes a short break from avidly reading something in the middle of the notebook to raise one impossibly gorgeous eyebrow (and seriously does he know Gaius or something because the pose is almost exactly the same.) "Really."

"Yes, really," I say, defensive. What, does he think my writing skills are bad, or something? I have won awards! Legitimate awards! With certificates and plaques and everything!

He grins devilishly, then reads aloud: " _'Oh, Doctor, do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do this to you?' Jack asked, in between placing love bites on Ten's spine._ "

… Oh. Shit.

My face really hates me today, because this blush just keeps cropping up ...

My (evil) seat-mate chuckles at my facial expression, then continues, " _The Time-Lord gasped with each new mark, and wondered how he'd managed to go nine hundred years without this—without Jack Harkness, in his bed, ready to do whatever he wished. 'Jack,' he moaned, and Jack found himself so proud that he could do this, take apart the Doctor—more than a man and almost a god—and reduce him to a spluttering, hot mess. 'Jack, I need you inside of me.' Jack was only too happy to comply, so he unzipped his jeans and pulled out his already-hard co—_ "

He breaks down into laughter, and it really is not fair, because how can I hate someone who looks that bloody attractive while laughing at me? There should be laws against this kind of thing.

"Okay, so it's rough drafts of my new book, and a bit of fanfiction," I admit, crossing my arms defensively. "Problem?"

The prat is laughing so hard, people from two rows over are giving us funny looks. I point at him and mime that he's crazy and I have nothing to do with him.

"It's not that funny," I whisper.

Only apparently it is, because he just goes on laughing, for another ten hours (okay, maybe it was more like five minutes, but it  _felt_  like ten hours), occasionally repeating lines from the fic or banging his fist on his tray table.

When his fit of temporary insanity has settled down a bit, I start arguing, because seriously, I think his reaction was a little much.

"It really wasn't that funny," I repeat.

He snorts disbelievingly.

"No, really," I say. "And I worked pretty hard on that fic, too—and it got over fifty reviews, all of them good, so …" I stick my tongue out at him—I know it's childish, but it conveys my emotions pretty well at this point.

"What, you mean there's actually a market for this type of crap?" the prat asks. I can't tell if he's genuinely curious or just wants to make fun of me more, but I answer anyway.

"Well, not really for that particular pairing," I explain. "The Doctor Who fandom is pretty shit at fanfiction, to be honest. Everyone ships Ten/Rose, but nobody really writes it, they just make depressing gifsets, and there's no Big Gay Pairing for the fandom to rally around, you know? Sherlock has its Johnlock and Supernatural has its Destiel and all that, but Doctor Who doesn't really have anything. We don't even have pairing names, seriously, how pathetic is that? But I write Jack/Ten anyway, because  _Jack/Ten_ , and, sure, those fics don't do as well as my Johnlock ones, but it's still something, and … What?"

I just noticed that he's staring at me as though I have three heads, one of them fire-breathing.

"Do you always babble when someone asks you a question?" he says. "And for the record, I have next to no idea what you were just talking about."

I blush—why the hell am I blushing, he's only insulting the way I talk—and reply, "Well, my friends say I do. I don't really mean to, it's just that I start talking and all of these words pour out … Sorry about that, I didn't mean to go on, and I wouldn't expect you to understand anyway, it's not like there are tons of guys in fandom—wait, why am I apologizing to you, you're a prat."

"I'm not a prat!" he exclaims—he seems genuinely insulted. Such a prick he doesn't even realize he's a prick. Jesus. Why does it always have to be the really hot ones?

"Um, I think I could put up a pretty good argument against  _that_  statement."

"And I think—no, I  _know_ —I could beat you in that argument."

"What?" I ask incredulously. "Seriously? I doubt it."

"Well, are  _you_  an undefeated (except for that one time with Mordred, damn Mordred forever) court lawyer? I think  _not_ ," the prat shoots back, looking at me triumphantly, all  _take that, plebian._

"How did someone as stupid as you get to be a lawyer?" I retort, unwilling to be defeated that easily. "Did you bribe your professors with blowjobs in order to get them A's or something?"

He frowns at me. "I'll have you know I was an  _excellent_ student."

"Yeah, I'm sure. And what was your ratio of study time to party time?"

And then, somehow, he ends up telling me all about his law career—how he was practically forced into law by his father, who runs this huge firm in London, and how his success in trials have made him almost famous in the London court system, and how he loves molding his words into irrefutable arguments, like works of art—and then I tell him all about my work as an author—how I wrote this mystery story about your average museum security guard taking down a secret art smuggling ring, and it somehow managed to become a bestseller (I'm still not entirely sure that really happened), and now I'm working on a sequel, though I'm thinking of writing something about dragons instead—and it turns out he's actually read my book, and he didn't think it was complete rubbish, which feels like the highest compliment coming from him for some reason, and he's telling me his opinions on what the sequel should be about when a couple of flight attendants show up bearing God's greatest gift to man (food.)

"Oh, I should buy you a sandwich or something, to make up for the inconvenience I caused your bladder earlier," he says as we wait for the attendants to serve the people across the aisle. This is an American airline, since we're flying from New York, so the food actually costs money. Bloody Americans and their bloody extra expenses.

I snort, not believing that he's actually sorry.

"What?" he asks. "I'm not _that_  big of a jerk."

"Yes, and Harry Potter is not  _that_  great of a book series," I reply sarcastically. "You just want me to put you in the book, don't you?"

He gasps. "How could you ever suggest such a thing? I would  _never_  be so diabolical as to bribe an author to put me in his book with sandwiches."

"I'm surprised you're capable of correctly using the word 'diabolical' in a sentence," I say. "I mean, it is  _five whole syllables_."

There isn't time for the scheming annoyance to make a comeback, because it's now our turn to order.

"I'll take two roast beef sandwiches," he orders, "one for me, and one for … one for … I just realized, I don't actually know your name," he says, looking at me suddenly.

"It's Merlin," I tell him, wondering why I can't stop staring at his eyes. They're nice eyes, pure blue, like the sky on a clear day …

"Merlin," he repeats, and for some reason, my name sounds so different in his voice—beautiful, like a precious thing. "I'm Arthur."

"Arthur."

"Arthur and Merlin!" the flight attendant squeals. We both turn to look at her, breaking the moment. "I mean, like the legends. That's so cool! It's, like, destiny."

"Destiny?" I laugh. "More like a conspiracy of the universe to annoy me."

"Oh, you know you love it," Arthur says, slinging an arm across my shoulders—and for one short second, I can't deny that I do, but that's stupid, I've only just met this guy, and besides, he's a prat, so I shake the arm off and punch him for the unprecedented physical contact.

And then, when we get the sandwiches, he goes and steals half of mine, so any warm feelings I had are lost completely by this point.

"I did pay for it," he says, by way of explanation.

"Yeah, but I thought it was to apologize for the … Oh, what was it you said … The 'inconvenience you caused my bladder,'" I quote.

Arthur laughs. "Well, I think half of a sandwich is enough to appease your tiny bladder."

"Hey!" I exclaim, indignant. "My bladder is not tiny! It just so happens that I drank a lot of tea before the flight. And I was running late, so I didn't get to go before I got on the plane. And—"

"If I wanted a detailed description of your bowel movements, I would have asked for one,  _Mer_ lin," he replies—and the way he says my name,  _Mer_ lin, somehow makes me really mad and really turned on at the same time.

There's a slightly awkward silence for a moment as I contemplate this new development, and then Arthur asks, "So, what do you think of the new season of Doctor Who?"

"Oh, God, don't even ask me about it," I groan theatrically. "I could just murder Stephen Moffat with an axe, really. The Angels Take Manhatten … I cried."

"I didn't," Arthur says, and he almost seems proud of the fact.

I gasp in fake shock. "Inconceivable! You  _monster_! Do you have no soul?"

He shrugs. "I dunno, it just sort-of was their time. And at least they get a happy life together, right?"

"Yeah, but the way he did it has got to bother you," I argue. "Where did that angel in the graveyard even come from? What was that?"

We go on talking about Doctor Who, and then somehow I end up explaining Sherlock to him (he says he'll look it up as soon as he gets home), and telling him about Tumblr (he doesn't really get it and is a bit wary of the amount of gay there, but has decided to give it a try anyway), and arguing with him about the best Lord of the Rings character (he insists it's Aragorn, but  _clearly_  it's Pippin) and who's the better author, Terry Pratchett or Douglas Adams (how can he choose Adams' nonsense over Pratchett's absolute genius, I really cannot comprehend), and the next time I check my watch, it's been five hours since the start of the flight.

I meant to get a lot done on this flight—write the next chapter or so of my book and then do some planning, maybe jot down some ideas about the potential dragon story—but I don't even feel guilty for not doing any of it, because I've never enjoyed myself this much in my life. At first, I just thought Arthur was a prat, albeit a gorgeous one, but now, although he is still a prat, and he teases me to no end about anything and everything, he is also incredibly smart, and funny, and genuinely kind underneath that prattish exterior, and Rory is his favorite Doctor Who character and he likes to spend Saturdays hiking in the woods by himself because nature grounds him and he has a hard time waking up in the mornings and his favorite color is red, not a maroon red or a blood red but a majestic red, the color of royalty, and he truly believes that everybody is important and …

And I think I might be just a little bit in love.

I know, I know, this is going to be the part of the story when Gwaine yells at me for falling for someone I barely know without even fucking him first and Gwen "aww"s and claps her hands gleefully and all of my friends basically laugh at me for being an idiot.

They'll be right, of course—I  _am_  an idiot, for falling for this arrogant jerk who probably isn't even gay and whom I'll probably never see again after this flight is over. Somebody should just move my seat, get me away from Arthur before I say the wrong thing or look at him for too long or, basically, make an utter fool of myself (which is something I am incredibly talented at.)

But it doesn't happen, and we just keep talking—about music and families and the London tube and our lives and anything else we can think of—and I never want this flight to end. I check my watch, somewhere in the middle of an argument about the best place in London to get pasties, and there are two hours left before we touch down—not enough time, slipping away too fast.

I'm suddenly struck by how this could be a great metaphor for life itself—how life is short, and time slips between our fingertips too quickly to catch. I consider writing it down, but it's too painful.

"Hey, Arthur," I say, interrupting his rant about his next-door neighbor who blasts death metal at three o'clock in the morning, "want to hear a great joke?"

"I doubt any joke you know would qualify as great,  _Mer_ lin," he replies, "but sure."

I grin, totally ready to prove him wrong—it's definitely a great joke. I mean, I found it on Tumblr, so it must be quality. "So there's this string, yeah," I begin, "and he walks into a bar. The bartender says, 'I'm sorry, but we don't serve your kind here.' So the string goes outside and frays his edges a bit, and ties himself up a bit, and goes back in. So the bartender says, 'Haven't I seen you here before?' and the string goes, 'No, I'm a frayed knot.' A frayed knot—get it?"

Arthur stares at me for a second, as though he can't believe anyone this stupid could actually exist (which, I mean, come on—he's clearly the stupid one) and then bursts out laughing. "A frayed knot … Jesus, Merlin, that's so bad it's funny."

He's laughing, and his laughter is contagious, so I'm laughing, and I lean into him for support—and then, suddenly, the plane tilts, and I find myself launched into his lap, eyes locked on his, because of course I forgot to put my seatbelt back on after I stood up to do my Gollum impersonation an hour ago.

I am an author, so I immediately struggle to think of the perfect analogy to describe this moment—a way to capture it, before it flees—but I fail. My mind is so consumed with  _wanting_ that I can think of nothing else.

"You're really quite clumsy, aren't you,  _Mer_ lin," Arthur says quietly, and I'm not sure whether he's talking about my balance, or … Or something else.

"I am," I agree, and I mean both.

He grins—and it is more beautiful than any sight I could have conjured up in my writing. "Then I guess we're both clumsy fools, aren't we?"

"No, I'm the clumsy one, and you're the fool," I reply—or, at least, I start to, but he interrupts me, crossing the short distance between our faces and giving me a taste of roast beef sandwich and mint gum and something else, something entirely Arthur.

I've kissed people before, but never like this. This feels like the sort of kissing I write about in fanfiction—strong and perfect and  _right_ , as though, as that flight attendant said earlier, this is destiny, or a conspiracy of the universe to (can you believe it) make me happy. My whole mind goes blank, except for a steady chant of  _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur_ , and I pull him closer, grabbing at his hair and opening my mouth to his exploring tongue.

He pulls away after a minute to smile at me, goofy and happy and I'm sure I look exactly the same way, but it doesn't really matter.

"I think I need to go to the bathroom," he decides suddenly, standing up.

… Wait, what? Did I miss something? Was I a terrible kisser? Huh?

"No, I mean, I need to  _go to the bathroom_ ," Arthur repeats. "Do you think you need to go, too,  _Mer_ lin?" he adds with a wink.

…  _Oh_.

"Yes, I do, I definitely do, I've been holding it for ages, actually," I say quickly, stumbling over my words and probably sounding like a complete idiot.

Arthur laughs and pulls me up. "Come on, then, let's go."

And he doesn't let go all the way to the back of the airplane, even though people are staring, even though one girl is cheering and scribbling frantically in her notebook (representing the future generation of fanfiction writers, go her), even though I've only known him for a few hours, even though this is completely unusual and not allowed and possibly illegal and …

Oh, thank God, we're here.

Arthur fumbles with the lock on the door, then presses me against it, tasting the skin on the side of my neck. Which is very lovely and everything, but something is pressing against my back.

"Uncomfortable," I grunt. "Seriously uncomfortable."

"Shut up,  _Mer_ lin," Arthur says. "Do you want everyone to hear us?"

And okay, no, I don't, so I try, I really try, to shut up—but then Arthur starts doing something to my nipples and it's really quite impossible. But by that time he's too distracted by my hands exploring his arse (it's a really nice arse, okay?) to notice, and then we start undoing zippers and the "be quiet" plan drops along with Arthur's jeans.

Before today, I never would have guessed that someone as hot as Arthur would actually want me (mousy, lanky, big-eared me), but Arthur  _does_ —he even likes my huge ears, kissed them and bit them and muttered something about how they're adorable.

And that gives me the confidence to drop to my knees in front of him.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the most experienced of partners, but there is this  _one_  thing I'm at least halfway decent at, and … Well. Arthur certainly seems to like it when I take his (impressive, I'll admit) cock in my mouth, press my lips against it, lick up and around it …

"Fuck,  _Merlin_ ," he gasps, his face contorted into an expression of utter ecstasy, and I grin before diving back in again, sucking and nuzzling and drawing intricate patterns with my tongue.

"God, Merlin,  _more_ ," is all the invitation I need to take the whole length into my mouth, taste it and savor it like a piece of rare candy.

He comes apart with my name on his lips, his face bright red and brilliant, and I don't care that this is in a cramped airplane bathroom, this is absolutely brilliant.

It only takes a few seconds of his hand stroking my cock for me to join him, and both of us end up awkwardly sprawled across the toilet seat, jammed uncomfortably against the wall in case of turbulence.

This space really was not meant for two people, but what the hell, it works for Arthur and me.

I glance lazily at him to find him staring at me and smiling softly, like he's so happy he never wants this moment to end.

"So,  _Mer_ lin, this Colin character of yours," he says, "does he have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Romantic interest of any kind?"

I smile back, because I know exactly what he's asking, and reply, "I'm pretty sure he does now. At least, as long as the new boyfriend isn't too much of a prat."

"I'm sure he'll do his best," Arthur assures me—and I'm sure he will, too, even though he  _is_  a conspiracy of the universe to annoy me.

* * *

"…  _And the dragon-lord and the king surveyed their kingdom as the sun rose over the horizon, satisfied that peace had come to the land at last._  I don't know, Merlin, it seems a little cliché."

"Since when are you an expert on cliché?"

"You asked me for my opinion, and I'm giving it. You shouldn't end the book with a line like that. End it with something funny, or awesome."

"You mean, like, a bad pun?"

"No!  _Not_  a bad pun! Never a bad pun! You know what I've told you about puns, Merlin, they do not work for you, not in the slightest."

"You don't have to be so violent about it."

"Can you imagine your bad puns unleashed on the world? The results could be destructive."

"… Alright, fine, then, how would you end it?"

"How about …  _And the king and the dragon-lord had awesome, sexy, incredibly hot gay sex, like awesome, sexy, incredibly hot people, and the people of the world were so impressed by the mind-blowing amazingness of their gay sex that they didn't even try to fight any more, ever. Because cock. And also blowjobs. The end."_

" _Arthur_! It's supposed to be a  _children's book_!"

"So? The sooner you learn about blowjobs, the better, if you ask me."

"Somehow, I doubt my editor will agree to that."

"I thought I was your editor!"

"You're just my boyfriend."

"That's much more important."

"Not in the publishing world."

" _Mer_ lin."

"How about …  _And Arthur and Merlin spent the rest of their lives arguing, but they always laughed about it afterwards, and it was things like that (not the great deeds and acts of valor, the expert diplomacy and peacemaking, the incredible feats of strength and magic) that made their tale the stuff of legends._ "

"I like that. That's better."

"Good."


End file.
